Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

[SquigglyWiggly]

Without question and with seemingly little regard to his own personal safety Damien puts himself between Kaden and the bull of a man.
Finch has been juggling moment after moment and this is another new development he struggles to make sense of.
He peeks around Damien at the man threatening his life and still feels small, but in a different way.
Less vulnerable, but more helpless. More like a kitten, than a fly.

He's still shaking, still in pieces, still sitting next to a pile of vomit and completely unworthy of being saved. He began this night competent and dangerous and now he's here, like this, cowering like a damn dog.
Damien stands in the way regardless.

The man puts his hand on Damien and Kaden grimaces.
A moment later the man slams his big fist across Damien's face, opening up the cut above his eye. With a huff the driver tosses Damien aside.

A snap and a flick of glistening light and this psychopath is coming at Finch with a switchblade.
Kaden scrambles to move, to get out of the way.

All he can think about is Delilah and her dead eyes.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Not pulling out the firearm - not escalating the situation - is a conscious choice Damien has to struggle to make, and the decision gets rewarded seconds later with a punch to the face. His left ear is ringing, pain shooting up in his already bruised cheek. He barely has the time to put his arms out in defense as he's tossed aside like a ragdoll.

The snow does little to soften the fall, small drops of blood from his newly opened wound sinking into its filthy surface. But that's as far as the attack goes. The driver doesn't view him as a threat. Instead, he is headed straight for the seemingly dazed Kaden, a switchblade glistening in the low light of the street.

His back is turned on Damien, and that's a mistake.

The ex-cop's body is moving on instinct again, on muscle memory ingrained years ago that persists still. He's swift enough the attacker doesn't register he's gotten back up on his feet until Damien's hand is already holding onto his knife-wielding one in a vice grip.

"Wha-"

The weight disparity between the two men is obvious enough, but a well-placed leg sweep mixed with the surprise of the situation evens out the odds and has the driver suddenly lose his footing, sent falling backward.

The switchblade tumbles away on the sidewalk.

Damien is leaning fully down on top of the flabbergasted man, fist winding back. It connects with the guy's jaw in a crack. Several times. As many as it takes to make him go unconscious, and then some, venting frustration.

What are mere seconds feel like minutes, but eventually the grunts from beneath him cease and Damien allows himself to stand up. The struggle didn't take too long, but it was violent and it was loud. As uncaring as the average New Yorker might be, doubtless someone witnessed the altercation.

Without missing a beat, Damien strides towards Kaden, grabbing under his arm to unceremoniously drag the consigliere up and into the car before entering the drive-side door himself. He turns the keys still in the ignition. Time to leave the scene.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

--- depression transition ---

It's the weirdest car ride Finch has ever been in.
On some level it feels like the world should stop. His own has had a significant chunk of it's substance bitten out of it, yet here he is. Cold, ass wet, shoes stinking. His mouth has that thick, gross taste that can't be remedied regardless of how many times he swallows.
It's not fair to be faced with this kind of thing and simultaneously be this degraded. The world should have some sort of respect. It doesn't feel real.

He has the oddest urge to call Delilah and ask for help. He has a problem he can't understand, he gets her opinion. It takes him for another spin when his hind brain realizes his crutch is gone and the source of his solution is actually his big problem.

But he keeps doing it, caught in that cycle. Delilah's dead, call Delilah for help.
Doesn't make an ounce of sense, but that's where he is now as a person he guesses.

Damien had to drag him into the car.
Two hours ago he had that man on a leash and now he's driving Finch's car. After saving him from a car altercation gone deadly.
The sound of Damien's fist slamming into that man's face echos in his head. Of course he's seen all things like it, even worse.
He's just never seen them from Damien.

Finch doesn't think Damien's seen something like that from himself either.

The capo hasn't said where to go and Damien's taken the opportunity to just drive.
The passage of buildings is somewhat soothing, but they can't do this forever.

"We need to replace this car," he states, and actually feels proud of himself for how level his voice is. His hands are balled up on his knees, gripping the fabric of his pants.
"Can we- We should go to my apartment."

He doesn't have any reasoning to make that offer sound appealing besides getting rid of these plates. In fact, it's probably stupid to take this car to the place he calls home.
And yet logic be damned.

"It's nearby," he adds.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

It takes a bit for Damien to realize he doesn't fully remember how to drive. The first few minutes of fleeing go by in a flash, not anywhere near as fast as Kaden had been driving earlier, but the adrenalin still carries the Mercedes along quickly through the city streets.

It's only after his mind clears that the ex-convict realizes sitting behind the wheel for the first time in years is nerve-wracking. Not that he'll ever allow his trepidation to show. Regardless, the car slows down to a more manageable speed. That's probably best anyway in order to blend in with the traffic.

The excitement from the altercation being gone also gives Damien space to think back on his actions. It's not like he's never been in a fight before, far from it. He was a cop in prison, after all. But this is the first time he's done anything like that against a civilian. The thought makes him grimace. In hindsight, a lot of what he did now seems unnecessary. He should have stopped as soon as his opponent lost consciousness, but he didn't. Instead, he's pretty sure he broke the guy's nose. Frustration had been building ever since the Moonlit Wolf, and he took it all out on a man that, as much of a scum as he was, wasn't responsible. No, instead he actively ended up protecting the one truly responsible.

Damien side-eyes Kaden. He should have just left him to deal on his own with the knife-wielding psycho.

No, that hadn't been an option. On one hand, he still needs Finch's help. On the other... he can't help feeling bad for him, against his better judgment. It's surprising to see the consigliere in such a state. Almost unnerving. He'd looked so powerful at the start of the evening, so in his element that Damien couldn't help but hate and admire that fact all at once. Now he looks... like a lost kid. He looks scarily human.

The ex-cop can't bring himself to regret helping.

Damien's eyes are back on the road, eyebrows furrowed. A trickle of blood runs down his face, not as heavy as before, but still annoying. He doesn't trust himself enough to let go of the wheel to wipe it off.

"Mhm," he hums in simple agreement. It would be prudent to get rid of the car as soon as possible. Doubtlessly authorities will be arriving at the fight's location soon, collecting the beat-up man alongside witness reports. Not too heavy on the details, hopefully.

"Your apartment?" Kaden's suggestion shoots Damien out of the relative calm of his musings. He wouldn't have expected that, not in a million years. It comes so out of left field that it sets him on edge. He should refuse. This is the first time he's had any amount of control over the Black Dog and he should take advantage of it, not willingly put himself on Finch's own turf. Damien glances at the other man's face again. A long sigh leaves his lips, "Fine. Just give the directions."

A moment later he adds, without any particularly strong emotion, "I'll remind you I still have a gun on me. And I really don't want to use it."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch must look as bad as he feels because Damien gives into his request. Not without threatening him first, but that's par for the course. And the tone of voice isn't very convincing either. Not friendly, but almost casual. Plain. Statting a fact.

"You already put yourself in harm's way on my behalf, I find it unlikely you'll kill me unless under extreme circumstances," he states, looking out the window at the passing stores.
Damien had just put himself between him and danger without a second thought. The man usually did everything without a second thought but still...
It's something to think about that isn't Delilah.

"I'm not in the condition for any extreme circumstances and neither are you. You don't scare me and I doubt I scare you very much at the moment either."

His phone buzzes and Kaden thinks he's going to be sick again.

--- domestic sad fluff transition it's finally here ohmygosh---

Pawl doesn't greets him at the door. She's like that with new people, finding some bed or duvet to hide under. He understands, on some level he wants to do the same thing, but that doesn't make it less awful.

Kaden's wet, soggy, cold. November is bad enough without being wet.
He drops his keys in the little clay tray he keeps at the door, takes off his boots and leaves the foyer for the kitchen so he can dump them in the disposal unit.
The place is clean, authoritarian, comforting in it's lack of any true character.
It's all marble floors and luxury black, red furniture. Cade always said his penthouse looked pretentious, with the vogue sculptures and artsy paintings but Finch likes them.

Rich, successful people who know what they are doing and who they are have abstract, arguably bad art in their homes. He has a grand forte that he can't play, but the same rule applies. Besides, it's electric anyway.

"Take your shoes off," Finch says from the kitchen, as he dumps his own.
Damn, he forgot the gloves again. He's been forgetful all evening, tripping over himself, making mistakes.

"I'm predicting Natalie won't get back to us until later tonight at the earliest." Finch fills up a glass from the sink, pauses to gargle.
One less irritation.

He's pulling out two large jars of clear, white powder when Damien walks in.
Bringing out his electric scale, the capo carefully begins measuring one cup of powder.

"We're safe here, but don't leave this apartment without me." Kaden pinches a bit off the top until the scale reads properly.

"Can I interest you in anything? I have water, plain and sparkling, alcohol, coconut milk, almond milk, soy milk, regular milk..."

He looks at Damien, at the streak of red on his face.
"And Pepsi but no one ever asks for it."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien had agreed to come to Kaden's apartment of his own free will, yet he couldn't put aside the feeling that it was a terrible, foolish idea. His uncertainty didn't let up the entire way up the building, arm ready to unholster the LC9 at a moment's notice at any sign of hostility from Finch. Such a sign never came, but the ex-cop remains ever vigilant.

This vigilance morphs into wide-eyed surprise as soon as he enters the foyer of the penthouse.

He should have expected this. He did. Did he? Honestly, he doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore except that he's deeply, unbearably tired. But as long as this place has somewhere to sit down, that's all he cares about.

He's still lingering around near the entrance when Kaden calls out from where he'd disappeared inside. Good thing Damien hadn't moved so far or he would have very well walked in with his shoes. He takes them off as requested, putting them down neatly on the floor right up against the wall.

The further he ventures into the penthouse, the more Damien is struck by the amount of money on display. It makes him think back to his own bleak, pathetic, tiny domicile. The ex-convict has to push down the feelings of inadequacy that threaten to rise up. Regardless, he's having a hard time not simply spinning around in bewilderment. Growing up his family was far from poor, but this is on a whole other level. It almost feels fake, in a way, not the type of place one actually lives in.

"Your place is... nice."

An obsidian black sculpture sitting on a side table catches the man's eye - it's all abstract angular shapes coming together to form... an amorphous mess. His brain is too spent to come up with any creative suggestions, but the sheer pretentiousness of the piece succeeds at lifting his spirits about his own home, if only slightly.

Damien's still looking around when he enters the kitchen and Kaden's voice resounds once more.

Why do you have so many different kinds of milk? He doesn't give voice to the thought, instead trying to decide what he'd actually want to drink. For the second time today, he's offered alcohol.

"Plain water's fine," it pains him to say it, but he does it anyway, "Do you have any bandaids? I need to clean-"

His eyes finally land on the consigliere, on the white powder he's currently handling. Damien feels himself tense up in irritation.

"Really, Finch?" his soft voice has taken on an accusatory and exasperated undertone, arm pointed with an open hand at the jars, "Do you think this is in any way a good idea?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch glances down at the flour, quirking his head. He looks back up at Damien, feeling very stupid in his wet pants and socks. Cade never understood this hobby either. Kaden has some hope Damien would be different, given how sensitive he was.
"I know perhaps it's unorthodox, but I thought we deserved a small treat," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

He grabs the salt, filling in a teaspoon before tossing it into a glass bowl with baking powder. He should shower. He should take off his pants too. The cold cling against his skin is unbearable.
Finch frowns at Damien's face.

"Oh Damien," he says, and feels a small smile, "I don't keep cocaine on the kitchen counter. Who do you think I am?"

He snorts to himself, folding his lips into a thin line.

"There's a trauma kit in the bathroom. Help yourself. Come out when you're ready for brownies."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

It takes a while for Damien's brain to register exactly what Kaden said. It simply sounds too unbelievable, completely disconnected from the reality of several hours ago. Eventually, though, the words make sense, not that they clear up any of the ex-cop's confusion.

Damien can feel embarrassment rising to his face and a hand shoots up to cover it, hopefully fast enough before it's too noticeable.

He doesn't respond - he can't - instead heading off to retreat down the hallway in shame. His humiliation reaches its apex when he has to peek back around the corner to ask exactly where the bathroom is.

---

Damien's face is wet. The first thing he did coming into the bathroom was turn on the sink's faucet and splash water on himself several times over, sleeves rolled up so they don't get too drenched in the process.

Finally, he's come back up for air, hands leaning on the sink as he stares at the unfamiliar man in the mirror.

His looks betray the kind of day he's had - the dark circles under his eyes are even darker than usual and his grey irises look unfocused. There are faint spots of dried blood that he didn't manage to clean off of his bruised left cheek. Letting the water run once more, Damien uses his fingers to wipe away the leftover traces of red. The small cut on his eyebrow is wide open, though it has stopped bleeding by now. He soaps up his hand before cleaning the injury as best as he can, doing the same for the scraped knuckles on his right hand. He hadn't noticed them until now, they must have gotten scuffed up in the fight.

Damien thinks for a second whether he should leave things at that, before remembering the trauma kit Kaden mentioned. Out of nowhere, the embarrassment from earlier returns uninvited.

In a rush, Damien is throwing open the medicine cabinet. The kit was offered and by hell is he going to use it! He locates the antiseptic and bandaids quickly enough, applying the former to any injuries while the latter he puts over his now-clean brow cut.

The process is over far too fast for the man's liking, and he's left lingering awkwardly in the bathroom, not exactly eager to go back out. Damien is not the type of person to get riled up easily. As a matter of fact, he prides himself on his ability to remain level-headed in the face of most situations. This evening Kaden has successfully pushed his buttons several times, and Damien detests that. There are very few things he has control over in his life, the most important one being himself.

The man in the mirror is staring at him again, with that same indifferent expression. Was this the right call?

The kitchen suddenly seems like the preferable place to be. He's not exactly "ready for brownies", but Damien exits the bathroom anyway. Plus, he'd be lying if he didn't admit he was at least mildly curious to see what the gangster had whipped up.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden's left alone and his smile falls. For one blissful moment he's satisfied with the sadistic torturing of his red faced partner.
But it's fleeting.
What's he doing smiling in the first place? His phone remains on the kitchen island, blinking. He can't even look at, much less think of answering it.
No, he puts his effort into constructing his dessert. There's a calmness to baking. A certainty. As long as one follows the recipe the results can be predicted. So few things in life are like that.

Yes, he wants to pretend everything's okay. Yes, under the veil he knows they're not.
Does that stop him from browning the butter? No, it does not.
And yet he knows the process of making brownies can only last so long. What's he going to do when the pan goes in and the oven door closes?
What's left after he's eaten them, if he even does? What then?

Is this what Damien felt while rotting in prison?

Pawl makes an appearance, wide eyed and head swiveling.
She knows something's different and she can tolerate very little change. She's a ragdoll, universally known for being a placid, affectionate breed, but no one told her that.

He sighs, squatting in place.
The feather plume tail goes up as soon as he goes down and she trots over mewling complaints.
Who's this man he's brought over so late at night without asking her? What's he thinking? Why's he wearing dirty clothes? Where is her night time snack?

All very good questions.

Finch gives in and sits and the warmth from the heated floor means he's going to stay, regardless of how improper it is to sit on the floor.

--- tiny time skip it's miniscule picture like fifteen minutes ---

When Damien comes back he comes back later than expected. Rough around the edges, but leagues better with the blood washed away.
He looks tired.
He looks how Finch feels.

Now Kaden is sitting on his heated kitchen floor, back against the cabinets and one knee to his chest.
Pawl is lapping up a slab of butter from the floor that fell. He could fight her for it, or let her indulge. He lets her be happy.

In a similar matter he has a plate with a half eaten brownie resting on his thigh.

"I... I really don't remember much of my mother." He speaks, not consciously, just words filling the air.
"But I have this vivid memory of her holding my hands in her own to stir batter in an old milk carton she cut in half. I've never been very good with being touched, and I wasn't then either but I swear..."

He wipes his hair back, resting his head against a drawer.
"I've been trying to replicate her recipe but it never tastes right."

He gives Pawl a stroke, which she ignores in favor of the butter. The feline watches Damien out of the corner of her eye, but presently food is more important.

"Mine taste much better and they're not as good because of it."

It all proves too much for Pawl and she scurries like a squirrel, slinking away and licking her lips.
Finch scowls, tightening his hand into a fist to stop the shaking.

"You mentioned killing me in the car. Or at least wounding me. And I said you wouldn't do it." Finch heaves a sigh as he gets to his feet.
He picks up the knife he used to cut the baked good with, testing it's edge with his thumb. Cutting a slice, the knife goes through like it's butter.

"What would I have to do for you to unload a round into me, Damien? If I went after you with, say, a knife," he says, gesturing with the blade, "where would you choose to shoot me? What would you do afterwards?"

Cleaning the crumbs from his blade with a hand cloth he adds, "Middle or edge piece?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Kaden's on the floor. He's on the floor eating brownies. Damien would most likely find the situation funny in an absurd kind of way that makes the embarrassment from earlier easier to swallow. But instead, his eyes are focused beyond the slumped-over man, onto the cat.

The ex-convict hasn't had a pet in... ever, really. When he was young, his parents were not too keen on having animals around the house, but Mike's mom used to keep birds, a lot of them. They were cute. The cat is as well. Even from a distance, it looks unbearably fluffy. Damien's hand itches - he wants to pet it.

However, that would be rude so he maintains composure, shifting his gaze over at Finch. He hadn't taken him for a cat person, not that that would be the biggest surprise of the evening. Actually, looking at the Black Dog now, he reminds Damien of a big, wet, sad cat he can't help feeling sorry for. The emotion only deepens when Kaden starts speaking.

Should Damien be hearing this? It sounds like something private that the ex-cop should absolutely not be privy to, and he wouldn't under normal circumstances. Yet, a lot has happened in a very short amount of time, so he simply stands there quietly and listens, because he would have appreciated it if someone had done that for him. As Kaden's words keep spilling out, Damien becomes acutely aware he knows next to nothing about the man. He hasn't had any need for it, viewing Finch as nothing more than a means to an end. That's still the case, but he is nevertheless taken aback. It shouldn't be surprising that the capo has a past.

Before Damien can fool himself into further pity, the topic of conversation switches abruptly, signaled by the fleeing feline. Damn, he hadn't even gotten the chance to introduce himself to it. Now he has to bear whatever tirade Kaden is going off on. Sympathy has been replaced with frustration, though at least that's more familiar.

Where would you choose to shoot me? The only thing Damien can do is sigh.

"Here, probably," he points at his own chest, a centimeter or so above the heart. Despite what sent him to prison, Damien's never killed anyone before. But he's imagined it, many times, "Maybe in the gut to let you bleed out if I'm feeling less generous. Then I'd just leave. I'd rather it didn't come to that."

Where did this line of questioning even come from? Kaden's phone is sitting out in the open. The blurry image Damien had briefly seen on it flashes through his mind - it has been subtly nagging at him, but he doesn't know exactly how to bring it up. Another sigh escapes the ex-cop as he starts slowly walking over. The comforting scent of baking still permeates the air.

"You know..." he starts off slowly, a little bit uncertain, "When Michael was killed I felt like I was going to die. That feeling hasn't... exactly gone away. I don't think it ever will. But you learn to live with it. It can even fuel you."

He's standing opposite of Finch by the time his pathetic attempt at commiseration is over, the counter serving as a divide between the two, "An edge piece. By the way, the cat is cute. What's its name?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Finch stares at Damien, blinking softly at how he'd choose to kill him. The man is frustrated with him, as most people tend to be. Kaden's a unique person, he knows that, but this is important.
He has something to say, even if he can't quite articulate how he wants to.
Talking about his ragdoll is easy, comforting.

"Pawl," he says, and adds, "P, A, W, L. Cade got her for me, he named her. She's female, biologically and she hasn't been able to tell me differently so she's Pawl."

Damien's eyes had been on his cat, of all things. He seemed to really like Pawl. It's one of the many endearing things he's committed, second only to shaming Kaden for the giant jar of cocaine-flour on his counter.

Finch serves up an edge piece, sliding it across the counter to Damien. The sound of glass scrapes loudly in the silence.

"You're too kind a person to be doing this, Damien," he says, looking down at the man who came to barter for information, man power even, on a basis of nothing and actually thought a man like Finch would be persuaded. Damien hasn't even attempted to smoke in his vircinity since they left the Outpost, even though Finch knows he wants to.
And now he comforts Kaden, after visibly showing pity and sympathy for the man that poisoned him.
He chose honestly when speaking to the boy who admired him, despite how much it hurt.
They're little things, yes, but that's usually where all the difference lies. The little things.

"You'd shoot me, but you wouldn't be happy about it. You'll have to kill a lot of people who don't necessarily deserve it to get to the people who do. Potentially like that ill-tempered man we ran into. Maybe even someone like Montesano."

He nearly mentions Damien willingly walked into a Black Dog hideout without question, but decides that information is better kept untold.

"You're naive, ignorant and sensitive and I think the transition you're trying to make will kill you. Or worse."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

The brownie looks unexpectedly enticing, and Damien is just reaching out to grab his piece when his fingers stop, hovering mere inches away.

His eyes flick up to Kaden's face. It's the first thing the gangster has said that actually, genuinely hurts, worst than the beating the Black Dogs inflicted. Because there might just be slivers of truth in there.

Far from comforting, that makes the ex-convict angry, irrationally so. Things like "naivete" - he has spent the last 15 years killing such parts of himself with the sole goal of making sure he could accomplish his mission once he got out of prison. Whether he has been successful... Damien's hands clench shut.

He's more than aware of the position he has in this city, completely different from the New York he grew up in, but Finch doesn't get to look down on him. He doesn't get to make assumptions.

The mention of Natalia is what really throws the ex-cop over the edge.

"You don't know shit about me, Kaden," Damien spits out, his cold grey eyes flashing under furrowed brows, "Don't you dare underestimate me. Not after what I did for you when you couldn't even get your ass off the ground."

The last part comes out before Damien can fully assess what he's saying. Only afterward does he realize it's a cruelly low blow, but he shakes away any pangs of regret, still glaring at Finch.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden's face remains impassive, save for the tensing of his jaw he can't prevent.

"The fact you think that would hurt me only reinforces the reality you're not made for this."

But he did fall into mushy snow. That much is undebatable, so is the fact he's spent too long suffering with these clothes, his mark of shame for the whole ordeal.
The kitchen floor was heated, but he doesn't have that benefit anymore. Even the subtle weight of the water has changed not only the texture, but the essence of these clothes. If that makes any sense, which Finch is aware it doesn't.

And he did fall on his ass. He did. He's said and done a lot tonight.

Kaden turns away, stiffly.

He makes it a little bit more than halfway to his bedroom before he's whipping his belt off and shoving his slacks down, along with his damp underwear.
The air prickles his bare skin, warm and instantly relieving.
He breathes a sigh, stepping out of them.

Those will definitely have to be burned.

"Be here tomorrow morning with the intel from Montesano," he says, disappearing into the darkness of his bedroom.
"I'll make a call and let the...door men in this building let you out. I'll have a car service ordered for you. Take some brownies with you."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien's glare trails behind Kaden as the other man walks away, unfazed at the unceremonious undressing. He takes the instruction to leave gladly, already planning on making his exit anyway. He's overstayed his welcome.

The ex-cop stops only briefly to dig through his pockets. Eventually, he seems to find what he was looking for - several banknotes and quarters clink onto the counter, the amount he estimates the pie and coffee from earlier cost. As soon as that's done, he resumes his walk to the door of the penthouse, putting on his shoes and storming out.

He didn't take any brownies.

---

Damien already has a cigarette held in his teeth as the consigliere's "doormen" let him out. He doesn't stop to look at them. He doesn't wait for the car service to arrive either before he's walking down the street at a rushed pace.

He's still angry beyond belief, and neither the cold weather nor the deep inhale he takes of the cancer stick can calm him down. His thoughts are unusually loud, half of them berating him over his poor choices, half of them congratulating him on succeeding at what he set out to do by going to the Moonlit Wolf in the first place. He succeeded... right?

Impatiently, the ex-cop lights a second cigarette. He needs to get home, now. Fortunately, the subway is never far.

Damien gets sorely reminded that New York is called the city that never sleeps for a reason when he sees how busy the station is, despite the hour. It's nowhere near the crushing crowds he had to battle on his ride to the bar, but it's far from the empty calmness he was hoping for.

There are a handful of poor schmucks that have just gotten off of work, and a homeless man sleeping bundled up on a bench. A street musician is playing the violin for a small group of what appear to be drunk college students that keep hollering over the music and making requests for songs Damien has never heard of. Their cacophonous voices ringing out throughout the underground tunnel are grating, like nails on a chalkboard. The violinist is thoroughly fed up with them as well, catering to their every whim for a bit of change that never comes. Regardless, the kids might be annoying, but they're harmless. Damien should stay out of it.

Then he remembers Kaden's words.

It's easy enough to grab an unsuspecting drunk person by the collar, alcohol-laden limbs trashing around but too sluggish to really cooperate.

"Let him go you, psycho!" "The hell is your problem, man?!"

The slurred shouts coming from behind Damien don't stop his strides as he drags the guy several paces away, then throws him down onto the ground in a heap. He seems disoriented for several drawn-out moments before realizing he's ended up on his ass. Several more moments and he's realized what (or who) the cause for this new location is.

Damien interrupts whatever expletives were about to leave the college student's mouth, "Stay down and shut up,"

No retort comes back. Something in Damien's tone or his eyes must be enough to get the guy to quiet down, suddenly sobering up if just a tiny bit. Good. That's what the ex-cop wanted.

The other drunks rush to check on their friend the instant after his assailant walks away, mumbling in hushed whispers. The station is quiet. The violinist has stopped and is in the process of packing up her stuff while worriedly glancing at Damien.

He did what he set out to do, but it doesn't feel satisfying at all.

---

Damien's thoroughly exhausted by the time he unlocks the door to his apartment and comes stumbling into the claustrophobic hallway. His body has served him well, much better than he deserves, considering what he put it through today. But everything has its limits, and this fatigue is becoming unbearable, not as much physical as it is emotional.

He doesn't turn on the lights, instead foolishly venturing into a space he hasn't been occupying long enough to know how to navigate in the dark. But his goal is straightforward enough - the bedroom, only a few steps away.

The thought that he needs to shower (badly) pipes up at the back of his mind, but it's quickly shouted away by the urgent desire to just lie down. The walk to his desired destination feels like forever, yet mercifully, he arrives.

Moonlight- well, the artificial light from the city stream in through the sheer curtains (if they can even be called that) covering the window and glass door leading to a tiny balcony. The shine lands directly on his bed, illuminating it almost like a beacon.

It's nothing special, but as Damien's head falls onto the pillow, it feels like the most comfortable piece of furniture he's ever owned. The man has taken off only one of his shoes and none of his outwear, but the heaviness in his eyelids is too difficult to fight against.

It doesn't take long for Damien to succumb to a dreamless slumber.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

--- time skip ---

Finch breathes shallowly, keeping his balance. Sweat drips down his body, catching in places that make him itch.
The mat underneath him is sticky with it.

After his long shower succeeding Damien's departure, Finch couldn't sleep. Predictably.

After an hour of researching panic attacks and discounting every symptom he replicated last night, he spent an additional ten minutes with Pawl on his chest, staring up at the ceiling. He can't reason why he told Damien the things he did. Things that have never been said, nor should be.

After his failed attempts at sleep or finding answers he went to work.
There were runners to keep track of, men to pay, trails to hide, people to bribe and merchandise to move.
The workload was ten fold what it was before without Delilah at the helm and the Dogs were starting to question her lack of appearance.

And there was the one unfortunate job he completely a little over an hour ago.

The woman was in pieces. Every breath she took was a ragged breath that had to push past bloody lips.

Normally, they would've found a man to do that to. Doesn't matter if he made the loan or not. Father, brother, cousin, husband. Even a son.
But she had nothing, no one. The girl didn't even have a markable skill or business to be absorbed, like Martin's father had. She'd taken their money and pissed it away.
So Kaden was forced to off her.

He hates this fact, but it was better than just sitting, waiting, feeling useless. Finch felt more like himself by the time she was in the dirt, but he caught sight of her eyes and it wasn't Delilah he thought of, it was Damien.

Fortunately, there's a solace to the movement and honing of his body. The gym is wide and silent. A wall length mirror stares back at him, enlarging the void of a room he finds himself in.

But the peace can't last.

Cade barrels through the door, red faced and huffing.
He stomps across the gym to Finch and it echos.
"I would fucking murder you if the elevator wasn't out and I didn't have to run up eight flights of stairs to get here."

Finch exhales, controlled through his mouth. In through his nose, out through his mouth.
The muscles in his arms, stomach, everywhere feel like hot iron.

Cade frowns, reaching out and pressing a hand onto Kaden's thigh. He applies pressure and Finch flexes, able to resist him, but just so and not without shaking.

The tattooed gangster huffs, sets down his coffee and adds a second hand.
Finch's arms give and he flops down into the mat, panting.

"You don't answer your phone anymore, or what?" Cade scoffs, and Finch notices for the first time his red and inflamed knuckles.
He rarely uses brass knuckles. Something about making the interaction personal. Kaden's always thought someone's fist in someone else's face was personal enough.

"I had nothing to say to you."

Cade scowls at Finch like he's grown a second head.
"I thought you were dead!"

"Oh, I'm so flattered you came to check up on me so quickly. I've already dealt with our debtors and now I'm doing my pilates. Or I was before you rudely interrupted me."

Cade sighs the sigh of a long suffering man. He scratches at a sore knuckle idly.
"So... You're fine?"

"Indubitably."
"Great, cuz I -"
"She's not dead."

Cade holds up a hand. "What? Who?"

"Delilah." His 90 degree hold ruin, Finch goes into pushups to keep his sweat going.
"I studied the photos last night. There's something off about the death pose, everything about it is almost too perfect. I've seen people O.D. There's just something... wrong."

"What- no," Cade looks at Finch, wipes his nose. He takes on a calm tone someone might use to tell a child where their sleeping goldfish went.
"The wrong is that you... Well, you loved her and it's different when someone you love is wasted. Even in our job where people die all the time."

Kaden doesn't validate that comment with a reply. "Until I see the body myself I'll make my own conclusions."

This is where uncertainty and hesitance paints itself onto Cade's face. The man always has a shadow of a smile, but it drops.
"I didn't... See it for myself. I mean- these photos were airdropped to me. It's obvious to me someone- probably the Nakurra, bumped her to get to us."

Finch pauses. He slowly eases down onto all fours.
"You didn't see her body?"
"Well...no. Not in person. I thought you should be the first to know so we could fuck up the Nakurra as soon as-"

Finch hits Cade so hard the sound echoes through the empty gym. It knocks the man's face to the side, shakes the bones in Kaden's hand.
"You suspected her supposed murder was to get to us- to get to me, and you sent them directly to me anyway? Via text?"

Finch rubs the feeling of Cade's skin off his hand, but he can still feel the ghost of his warmth.
The gangster is stunned into silence, cradling his flaming cheek.

"You're a disappointment," he states, picking up a folded towel to wipe his face.
"She's not dead until I find a body."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien wakes up to the ringing of an alarm. He doesn't remember setting one, but he doesn't remember most after he stumbled into his apartment. It's a blessing he managed to make it to bed, though covered in dirty clothes and sweat as he is now, he doesn't feel particularly rested. The first hour or so of sleep was good, but then he kept slipping in and out of consciousness for the rest of the night, his mind too active for a proper nap yet in no condition for him to get up and do anything productive.

Looking at his wristwatch through bleary eyes, it's later in the morning than he usually prefers waking up. Much good that did him - the ex-cop wasted valuable time and didn't even get better quality shut-eye in return.

Damien is just about to turn off the phone's incessant ringing - it's not the burner, but the one that's actually registered to his name - when he realizes it's not an alarm. It's a call. He sits up in bed in an instant, thumb pressing on the green answer button as he holds the device up to his ear.

"Call back in 15 minutes," that's all Sergeant Montesano says before she disconnects.

It doesn't leave Damien with a lot of time to make himself even semi-presentable, but he's used to such fast mornings. In the blink of an eye, his outfit from yesterday is discarded in a pile on the floor and the man is in the bathroom, running a scalding shower for himself. The water feels soothing on the bruises he's sporting, though he doesn't let the pleasantness lure him into lingering. The ex-convict hasn't indulged in a long bath in years, and that serves him just fine, as he somehow multitasks a quick shave with brushing his teeth. This "proficiency" is really up there on the list of useless skills to have, but it does allow Damien to move through the mundane necessities of everyday existence with some speed. Throwing on new clothes is quick enough afterward, though he passes up on the bulletproof vest he slept in. Maybe it's partially responsible for his uneasy night. The gun, however, is a must.

Damien is done and out of the apartment with 5 minutes to spare.

---

His hair is still slightly damp when he walks out onto the chilly streets, but Damien doesn't pay it much attention, moving at a fast pace. He walks as far away from his building as 5 minutes will allow, before taking out his burner and turning it on. He dials the memorized phone number and it rings for a few short seconds before the person on the other end picks up.

"What did you find-"

"What were you doing last night?"

Natalia starts off with a question, not a "hello" or a "good morning". Admittedly, neither did Damien, but that's not too irregular for him. For her, on the other hand... The woman's voice comes through in a rush, severe and rhetorical, as if she's already aware of the answer. The ex-cop can take a pretty good guess as to why, but that doesn't stop him from trying to brush off the inquiry.

"Fleischer and I discussed further details over dinner. Then we split ways. Did you get back home safe?"

"Mhm, mhm," she's not listening to Damien, "So you don't happen to know anything about a black Mercedes involved in a near collision Downtown?"

There it is. The man's lips are pressed into a thin line, "There is more than one black Mercedes in New York, Natalia."

"Yeah, there's definitely more than one going around with two men matching yours and that P.I.'s descriptions."

Damien stops in his tracks, "Match how closely?"

"Closely enough for me, Blumenthal."

For her. That's key. Chances are there are a lot of blanks in the witness reports, but with the knowledge already at her disposal, Montesano filled in the gaps for herself. But this is still just a suspicion, even if she sounds fully convinced. The man resumes his morning walk. He doesn't say anything, he won't confirm or deny her inkling beyond a reasonable doubt.

The silence doesn't settle Natalia's nerves in the least, "Damien-"

A noise at the other end of the line cuts the policewoman off - what sounds like a knock on a door and a muffled masculine voice saying something to which Nat calls out "I'll be just a moment!" Her husband, probably. Thinking about it, it's around the time Montesano should be getting her kids to school.

"You have to go, Nat. Do you have any information for me?"

The sergeant is not happy, not at all. But she knows Damien is right, "You should be very grateful for nosy neighbors. An older couple noticed a dark grey van near the address, parked late at night. Apparently, it stayed for several hours and then left after some people got inside. Couldn't get any descriptions, though.

"The vehicle was in a spot without any CCTVs, but a nearby store camera caught some footage. I'll send you a picture of the car. Either way, as far as I know, it was last spotted going north."

"Plate numbers?"

"Of course I checked them. They didn't match. A guy reported the plates of his Ford stolen some weeks ago. I'll send you his information too"

"Thanks, Nat"

"You're very welcome," the woman's still obviously exasperated, though she sounds not-so-secretly pleased to have been of help. There's another noise, "I have to go. Please, just... stay safe. The older couple also said some rougher-looking types have been snooping around the place recently."

Damien feels himself smile, "Of course."

No other protests come from Natalia as the line finally goes quiet. She's always been a diligent worker, but this is impressive even for her. She's managed to get them a lead. As much as he's been avoiding it, Damien's thoughts fleet over to Kaden and he can't help but grimace. It's with even greater distaste that he realizes his carton is empty.

---

The ex-cop stomps out a cigarette as he approaches the capo's complex, having made a brief stop at a convenience store for a bite and some smokes.

Remain calm. Remain professional. He's been repeating this mantra to himself the entire way over, schooling his expression into one of neutrality. It's exactly with that kind of visage that Damien approaches the "doormen" at the entrance to the building, "I'm here for Finch."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The doormen look Damien up and down before exchanging a look. They're dressed up to match the expensive looking complex, but like most men of the Black Dogs don't look like people you'd want to interfere with.
"Can't get enough huh? Show 'im in."

The other man branches off with a gesture to follow.
The opening of the complex is unassuming, fancy. There's couches to lounge in and the receptionist desk is made of marble and covered in vases of flowers.
In the corner is a coffee station, with a box or two of doughnuts.

Damien's escort takes him further in, silent as the grave. He doesn't even look at Damien.
Music and yelling break the silence and only grow louder.

The rec room lives up to its name with a wide screen TV that nearly takes up one wall and several gaming systems nestled beneath it.
There's a small kitchenette, pool table and a cupboard that houses a number of card and board games.
Markus, Jackie and Cade surround the foosball table, spinning the handles and smashing the little ball back and forth between the miniature players.

The man responsible for escorting Damien begins signing with one hand, huffing harshly through his nose when he sees no one's looking.
He slaps his open hand on the wall, drawing the attention of the men.
Markus is the first to look up from their game of foosball, knocking Jackie's elbow who hisses at the interference.

Rather than sign he just gestures to Damien and drags his finger skyward.

Oblivious, Cade pumps his fist at scoring another goal. "I am a one man killing machine, bitches."

"Lookit who's back, Finch's new boy toy," Jackie says, bracing against the table. Cade finally turns around and his grin grows at the sight of the ex-cop.

Jackie's interrupted suddenly and unceremoniously by Markus' sneeze. He's the type of person who roars when sneezing and for one deafening second it fills the rec room.
The man cradles his recently broken nose, groaning.

The silent man grimaces gently before giving a lazy wave and returning to his post.
The heavy door shuts with a definitive click.

"Dude, how many times I gotta tell you?" Jackie asks, hands out in exhasperation. He grabs a tissue from a box that's been set nearby for this exact, reoccurring problem. "Cover your mouth."

Taking the Kleenex Markus continues, "You've got a good right hook, blue. Would've been a real shame to waste that talent at the bottom of some harbor."

Cade's eyes shift from man to man at this exchange. His fingers tap restlessly along the edge of the table before he takes a step forward, sauntering.
"I'm one man short. Care to play while you wait, brother? Finch will be a minute or two."

Markus sighs and rolls his eyes when Jackie produces a wet wipe, vigorously cleaning palm after palm.

"He had a job," Jackie informs, moving onto wiping the foosball knobs with the wipe, "a job-job. With a chick. He always does some yoga nonsense after a job like that. The short king's right, he'll be a while."

"Its King Cade," Cade says through clenched teeth.

"Bullshit it is, no one chooses their own nickname," Markus says, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"Unless you're a real badass, something horrible and, or humiliating happens to you and you pray people will fucking forget about it but it becomes your name instead. Be happy you're not the mute guy called Tweety. Just own SK, Cade. Makes you look like less of a bitch."

Cade looks helplessly between Jackie and Markus.
"Yeah, but I didn't do anything humiliating or horrible, I don't see how it's fair."

Markus and Jackie shrug.
Both men exchange heated glances for a moment before all three sets of eyes are on Damien.
"Well?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien ignores the boy toy comment. Somehow. Remain calm. Remain professional.

The thunder of a sneeze from one of the other Black Dogs certainly serves as a good distraction to maintain composure. The ex-convict's brows raise slightly at the sight of the guy's nose - he hadn't realized he'd gone that far in their scuffle at the Moonlit, hadn't really intended it. Regardless, he apparently ended yesterday having broken a nose. Potentially two, depending on how the enraged driver is doing. In that case, it'd be a personal record.

If the gangster has any resentment towards the ex-cop for the damage inflicted, he doesn't show it. On the contrary, he pays Damien a compliment.

"Thanks, I guess," he answers with a flat tone, knowing perfectly well the two men did a number on him as well and it's pure luck he doesn't have anything fractured, merely several sore bruises including a prominent one on his face, "But I'm not a cop anymore"

Damien was hoping that would be as far as his interaction with Finch's subordinates went for now, but then he's told to wait. Even though he has information that the consigliere asks for, that he needs. Well, that's Kaden's issue, though the man's eccentricities don't end there.

"Yoga?" it's a weird habit to have after seeing a chick, much weirder than baking post- an emotional breakdown... If it even is that type of "job", given the cocaine-flour misunderstanding.

Damien shrugs and moves to stand on the "king's" side of the foosball table., "Sure, I'll play."

If he has no choice but to wait, he might as well do something, and this sound like a good opportunity to ask some questions.

"So, I never caught your guys' names. Except for you," it takes all of Damien's willpower to not say 'short king', but he suppresses the urge. Still, he'll keep the nickname in mind in the future, "Cade, right? Without an 'n'. What about you two?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Cade smiles at Damien, clearly puffed to be remembered and doesn't mind gloating over such a simple, largely inconsequential victory of which he had no real impact on.

"I'm Jackie, that's Markus," Jackie says.
Jackie was a thinner, well dressed man with blonde hair he swept back.
Markus was on the larger side of things, dark skinned with a short controlled hair style. The man wore sweats and tank tops, often with stains and didn't seem to care either way. In many ways they were exact opposites and yet they remained attached at the hip in many things.

After a flurry of ball bouncing and handle twirling, Cade scores another goal.

"So, how's the revenge mission going?" Cade asks with a raised eyebrow, "you find who framed Roger Rabbit yet? Boss said you crashed the Mercedes last night."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien is only half-focused on the game, though a sense of achievement sparks through him as his side scores a goal. He begins twirling the handle just a bit more eagerly, noise filling the rec room.

"I have a potential lead," he answers the tattooed man's rather tactless question, "If your boss would honor us with his presence, I might even be inclined to share it. Also, I sincerely hope you have gotten rid of that Mercedes, or at least don't take it out for a little while. Seems like some reports have been filed with the police because of the crash."

"I now know your names, some nicknames too," he side-eyes Cade, "Do most Black Dogs have one? I mean, I know Finch does, heard it yesterday. The Butcher."

"What did he ever do to earn such a, ah, threatening moniker."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

"That's a little bit before our time," Jackie says, but he's a man who can't resist a good bit of gossip so he leans in.

"I heard he and Delilah got dropped by cops outta nowhere. Like a dozen of the mother fu..." Jackie looks at Damien, clearing his throat and muttering an apology.
"Dozen or something policemen and women. Finch John Wick's their ass and caps all of them to save the boss boss. Leaves a fucking bloodbath. The man was drenched in blood like he was the lead star in Carrie. After that they started calling him the Butcher."

"Guy doesn't like cops, that's for sure," Markus says, then adds, "seems to like you though. He doesn't let a lotta people into his penthouse. Except for Cade maybe."

Jackie squints at his players in thought.
"You used to be a cop too, right SK? Maybe he's got a thing for desperate policemen."

Cade freezes and as a result a ball finally goes past his goalie.
He scoffs, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"I think the point we're all trying to make is don't lose your leverage, Damien. People in this field with stab you in the back the first chance they get as soon as it makes sense."

It's at this point the door behind them opens. A sudden hush falls over the room.
Finch's eyes drift from man to man, analyzing, dissecting.

And then, despite making Damien wait he says, "you're late."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

John Wick isn't familiar, but Carrie is and it doesn't take much for Damien to imagine the type of bloodbath Jackie is describing. He takes the story with a grain of salt. Still, the ex-cop nearly frowns at the violent mental image, reminded of the ambush he himself participated in against the Black Dogs years ago, though he smothers the feeling. He's not a policeman anymore, no matter how much these men are insistent on treating him like one.

They don't seem to have the same behavior towards the other supposed ex-cop in their midst.

Damien almost gets whiplash with how fast his head turns to look down at Cade. While his expression is kept blank, his wide searching eyes reveal just how surprised he is at the revelation. He's inspecting the gangster, going through his catalog of memories, trying to find a match for his face. When was he a cop? Where was he a cop? Is this the reason he helped him yesterday, at the bar?

"You were on the force?"

Kaden's appearance puts an end to both the foosball game and whatever answer Damien might have received, and while earlier he'd been eager for the consigliere to finally arrive, now he's not too pleased to have to put an end to his questioning.

"That makes two of us," with one last look at Cade, Damien turns to face Finch, arms crossing over his chest, "Not that I remember agreeing on a specific time... My contact came through with information."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

What was the expression, are your ears burning?

Finch exhales softly. All three of his dogs lower their heads and won't meet his eyeline. Cade specifically has his tail between his legs.
Damien's the only one who looks at him, indignant with his arms over his chest.

"Come then," he says.

--- Time skip ---

Finch studies the photos Natalie was able to acquire, sipping at his coffee as he leans back into his chair.
He had real coffee ordered into the lounge, the kind where the coffee beans are from an animal's rear end. Bizarre, but it's delicious and trumps every other brand.
Damien still insists on paying for himself, without realizing leaving exact loose change on a kingpin's table is more insulting than just taking advantage of generosity. Not to mention it's the most expensive coffee bean in the world.

"I know who's van this belongs to and the plates substantiate it," he confirms, setting Damien's last gen phone down on the coffee table. His own is newer, more confusing for a man who's spent over a decade in prison but Finch has found Damien to be a quick study.
Surprisingly, it took him a lot to offer Delilah's pictures and he still feels mixed about it.
Watching the man analyzing what must just be another dead person to him...

A blue blooded bastard doesn't deserve to see her at her worst...

"I had my suspicions with Delilah's convenient death of over dosing, but they're not someone you bust the door down on unless you're sure."

Finch still hasn't decided to tell the ex-cop he has major doubts about his boss' demise. After last night's affair and Cade's mocking reaction, he thinks it's better to keep it to himself.

"They're called the Ivies, or Sirens if you're being cute about it. They're very good at killing people and making it look like an accident or someone else's doing. They primarily employ..." Finch brushes above his upper lip with a thumb, trying to find the right word.
"Attractive people."

Except Delilah wasn't a lesbian. As far as he knew she wasn't an anything. That's not to say she couldn't have been taken advantage of, but it was an odd choice for a hitman. It wasn't a weakness she had to exploit. Drugs weren't even necessarily a weakness she had. Sure it could happen, but it wasn't the likeliest scenario.
She knew how much to take and how to take it.

Odd, the whole thing was odd. He couldn't be the only one who saw that.

"Was Kell..." Finch's mouth shuts with an audible click. He made a social faux pas the last time he spoke of Damien's partner and very obviously and understandably hit a nerve.
"Well, he was a consenting adult, correct, so would he have..." He knows he's being tactless. He usually does. This is the first time he cares.

"Was he prone to..." Kaden gestures uselessly with his hands.

"Do you know if he slept around a lot, specifically near the time of his death?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien never really got to see the crime scene where they found Michael. The police did everything to keep him away from day one, but over the years he's managed to get his hands on copies of the forensic photos - some in court, others via Natalia. Looking at the images in front of him now, he can't help but draw comparisons. The expression and the pain, he's seen them before. But Mike wasn't drugged, not as far as he knows. Even though the method is different, the woman's face blurs into that of a young man with a bullet hole between his eyes, and Damien has to blink several times.

He sets the phone down to take a sip of coffee. It tastes like nothing in his mouth.

Kaden's voice proves to be a much better anchor to bring the ex-cop back to reality.

Damien listens to what the other man has to say intently. He hasn't heard of the Ivies before, "You people and your names... So you believe these Sirens are who got to your boss, and they used an escort? Question is who employed them. Have you had dealings with their group before?"

He watches Kaden fumble and trip over his next words with mild amusement, not offering any easy way out of what the gangster is attempting to communicate. Yesterday he'd asked Damien if he'd murdered his partner and now he was having issues asking about said partner's personal life.

"We're adults as well, Finch. Speak freely," the ex-cop's smile is brief before his thoughts go to his childhood friend. He doesn't have to reminisce long to give an answer, "Michael had a lot of partners and switched them often, yes. He was popular like that. But when we were investigating, that aspect of his life kind of fell apart. It became secondary."

The same went for Damien's love life, but that's beside the point. The two officers had been obsessed with their case, for various reasons, and had devoted most of their free time to pursuing it. Nothing was totally impossible, though.

The ex-cop squints at the fancy phone for the umpteenth time, then rubs his eyes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he produces a leather case and from inside it - a pair of thin-framed reading glasses that he promptly puts on. But the device's screen is already locked and he doesn't know how to unlock it, and he won't ask Kaden. Instead, he taps on the surface of the table next to it.

"This isn't exactly how he died, though. But if the Sirens can use different methods..." much like the capo a moment ago, Damien has to think for a bit about how to delicately word his question, "Have you- have you gone to see her yet?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Somehow the answer regarding Kell's sexual promiscuity isn't what Kaden anticipated.
Policemen have a false reputation for being upstanding, not only in following the law but pretending to maintain outdated social constructs.
It's plausible the Sirens were involved, but like Delilah one would have to mash the puzzle pieces to fit.

His second surprise comes when Damien unfolds a pair of glasses to wear. They contour his face and frame his eyes in a decidedly pleasing way. Distinguishing, and maturing on a face Kaden didn't think could look refined.
Damien's red face from last night in his home comes to mind and Kaden finds the comparisons amusing.

The leather of the seat squeaks as Kaden shifts his weight.
He isn't blindsided at the question, not like he was last night.

He's... Embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe.

"No. I assumed her body had been taken in by paramedics before Cade could get to her, but he never saw her. Not physically." There's an unfamiliar rush in his chest, a pressure. Like ice, but fire hot at the same time. It hurts, and he recognizes these pangs as senseless hope.
The, please please please God please, a drowning man makes while he struggles to the surface.

It hurts almost as much as when she was dead.
They could have taken her body, they could have. As some final cruelty, they could have dissolved it in the bathtub.
But then why send the pictures? Why not let him find her?

He leans forward, taking his phone to unlock it with his print.
He hesitates a moment before setting it on the table again, rather than Damien's hand.
"We'll head there first. The queen bee has her stinger in everything. There's a chance she knows who killed Kell as well."